Surviving
by whitetiger91
Summary: Voldemort succeeded in killing Harry at the Battle of Hogwarts, ultimately winning the war. For those who managed to escape the initial purging and imprisonment, life on the run has become difficult, more so with few supplies available. For Mundungus Fletcher, losing the war was the best thing that could've happened to him. Voldemortwins!AU.


**Surviving**

 _ **A/N: This fic was originally written for the QLFC, Round 8. This round was an Alternate Universe round in which Voldemort lives. As Beater 1, my task was to write about life one week after Voldemort wins, using the optional prompts: (word) moonlight, (word) allegiance, (word) cruel. However, I ended up writing another entry using 'The Ants Go Marching' children's song in which Michael Corner is forced to go on patrol and hunt for rebels (which will be posted shortly after beta'ing).**_

 _ **Nevertheless, this fic has gone through an initial beta'ing (thanks Ari!) and may or may not still be used if the other one, for whatever reason, doesn't work out. I understand that Fabian and Gideon Prewett were alive in the Marauders as well, and it is unknown if they had any children. However, for the sake of having someone who would get hold of the Deluminator, I chose to use my headcanon that yes, they did have children at Hogwarts during the Trio era.**_

 _ **This fic is dedicated to my teammate, Lys (sxcond), for her Judge's Picks :) I doubt Mundungus is amidst her favourite characters, but her stories are simply amazing and very original, which always inspire me to think outside the box. Enjoy! Xx**_

* * *

They had lost the war. Dumbledore was dead, and now, so was the Potter boy. The latter had been killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself in the Great Hall of Hogwarts last week, or so he had heard. Mundungus had been lucky to get out of the Order when he had, knowing that those who had remained were either rotting away in Azkaban or were six feet underground. He had heard the reports of torture and murder, of banishment and death, falling on their side. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—or the Dark Lord, as he ordered people to call him—had won and was thriving on the endless power no one could take away from him.

Yes, they had lost the war, and yet, it was the best thing that could ever have happened to him.

"Twenty galleons? _Twenty galleons_? Where in Merlin's name do you think I'm going to get twenty galleons from?"

Mundungus shrugged and leant back in the chair, pulling the basket back towards him. The smell of Pumpkin Pasties wafted to his nose, causing his stomach to grumble. The sound was echoed by the wizard who stood in front of him, the man's blue eyes shining with hunger.

"It's just a Pumpkin Pastie; there's no way it is worth that much," the wizard said. Despite his words, his tongue darted out and ran over his lips, eyes never leaving the baked goods.

"Well, if you're not hungry, I suppose I could find someone else willing to buy it…" Mundungus said, lifting off the checked tea-towel covering it.

The smell became stronger as he revealed the crisp pastry of the Pasties. A smile found its way to his thin lips when the man shook his head and dug around his pocket.

"Fine, fine. I'll take it," he said, thrusting a small pouch of coins in his hand. Mundungus opened the pouch, ensuring that it was the correct amount. Only when he saw that it was, indeed, filled with gold coins—taking one out and biting it to ascertain that it was not Leprechaun gold for good measure—did he push the basket towards the man. He frowned when the man put the basket beneath his cloak, catching a glimpse of another pouch of what could only be coins. He knew he should've raised the price. Still, it was better than nothing.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said.

"How can you live with yourself?" the wizard spat. It did not stop him from grabbing the basket before marching away into the cold night.

Mundungus watched him, tucking the pouch into his pocket. It wasn't the first time he had been asked that question. As soon as he had set up his little store, he had been accused of cheating his customers and taking advantage of their desperation. Everytime he was asked, he waved them offaway, making sure that they bought from him.

The truth was, he could live with himself, and was doing very well at that. It had taken less than a week for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to round up the rebels, and even less to redirect all supplies to his supporters. In just one week, food, clothing, medical equipment, and other important supplies had become scarce, made available only to those He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named deemed worthy of their receipt. It wasn't Mundungus' fault that he just so happened to be able to find resources on his own, let alone that he was able to redistribute them to those who needed them. Nor was it his fault that the Galleons came rolling in—his customers were mainly people on the run, fearing that they would be the next targeted by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named: Muggleborns, friends and relatives of the Order, people whose allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was questionable. They needed him, and he needed them. It was a win-win situation.

Patting his pocket to ensure that the gold was still there, he raked back his stringy, orange hair and smiled at the next two figures approaching. He recognised one of the boys, had seen him hanging around the Order, more often than not with the Weasleys. He could've been no more than sixteen, red hair falling about deep blue eyes. A large nose dominated his face, bent at the bridge as though it had been broken. Deep purple rings circled one eye, and yet he seemed much better off than his mousy-haired friend, whose forehead and exposed arms were covered in a multitude of cuts and bruises. The second boy was limping, the robes at his knee stained with crimson liquid.

Both boys looked back and forth as they walked, darting in between the shadows of the alleyway that the pale moonlight had not been able to chase away. In the distance, the howl of a dog split the air, causing the boys to break into a jog. When they finally did reach him, Mundungus could see that their chests were heaving up and down with exhaustion.

"Yes? What can I assist you with?" Mundungus asked, bending down to pick up the satchel of medical supplies by his feet.

As soon as he placed the bag on the table, a few bandages and half-empty bottles of Dittany spilling out, the boys' eyes lit up. Mundungus pushed the few remaining Pumpkin Pasties he had forward, adding them to the mix.

"Anything we can get," the redhead panted, pointing at the items.

"Well, take a looksie," Mundungus offered, tipping the remaining contents onto the small, wooden table.

The boys shared a look, the mousy-brown haired kid stepping forward and sorting through them. Bottles of potions in various colours glittered in the candlelight, bandages—some soiled—unfurled from their coils, tablets and pills in foil packets crinkled, and jars with smudges of yellowing cream inside rolled from the table to the floor. They weren't the best quality by any means, yet that was the best anyone would find in these times.

"Erm, we were hoping for—well, for something that could cure this…" The mousy-haired boy put down the bottle of Dittany, the few drops inside sloshing against the glass. The boy gripped the table to steady himself and rolled up his trouser leg. Mundungus saw that the boy has sustained a deep cut to his knee, fresh blood trickling over dried clumps. It was infected; white and green pus oozed out around it, making him feel sick. Still, it was not his fault that the boy had been injured.

"These are my products. Take them or leave them."

The boys looked at each other again and nodded. They began to select a few different bits and pieces, piling up their arms with goods.

"All set? Well, that will be ninety-eight Galleons for the lot."

Mundungus cringed as one of the boys dropped his load, sending bottles and phials scattering across the table.

"How much?" One of them asked, his eyes bugging out of his head.

"Ninety-eight. Plus whatever you broke in the process."

"Ninety-eight? But—We don't have ninety-eight Galleons, we don't even have—" the boy was cut off when his friend elbowed him.

"That's a right rip-off mate, you gotta be joking. Half this junk isn't even worth seven sickles. We'll give you eight; an extra sickle so you can buy yourself some common sense." The redheaded boy folded his arms and nodded for his friend to start regathering the ingredients.

Mundungus wouldn't have it, however, and snatched one of the bottles back. The younger wizards never understood the fine art of bargaining, and it irked him that this lad believed he could negotiate. It had been hard to get his hands on his merchandise as it was—sneaking into abandoned houses, both Muggle and magical, taking what he could. These were tough times, and he certainly wouldn't be giving away all he got for free.

Snarling at the mousy-haired boy, who stepped back, he began to gather up the rest of his equipment.

"Junk eh? Well, that's too bad. This is the black market boys, and you'd do well to remember it."

"But it's not worth that much!" The redhead slammed his palms on the table, making the legs shake. The lone candle Mundungus had lit flickered under the impact, threatening to envelope them all into further darkness. Quickly covering it to make sure that it would not blow out, unsure that he wanted to use his wand to re-light it should his magic be detected here, Mundungus glowered at the boy. He could see that the boy's arms were trembling, the desperation clouding his blue eyes, but shook his head.

"C'mon, sir, how can you be so cruel? We're willing to give you eight Sickles for this stuff."

"Ninety-eight, and not a Galleon less. I stand to make a good fortune on this, kid, so don't be toying with me."

"Dammit!"

"And if you continue to slam your fists on my table here you can well be sure that I'll turn you in!"

His empty threat seemed to work, for the boy hit his table only once more and stepped back. His face was ruddy and nostrils were flaring, his fists balled by his sides, as he tried to contain his anger. Mundungus would never have turned him in; no, it wouldn't be worth the risk of the Death Eaters and their Task Force finding out about his illicit activities. If they knew that he wasn't so picky with who he helped, he, too, would certainly be thrown into Azkaban for his former allegiance to the Order. No reward of five-hundred Galleons for information on rebels they offered was worth the risk of imprisonment.

It was tempting to turn them in, however, when the boy spat at him.

"Oh, so you are one of them? I know you, mate, you used to be in the—the you-know-what," the boy paused and looked around, making sure he had not used the trigger word. "My Aunt Molly said so, told me you used to smoke up the house all the time. You've got a right nerve to treat us this way. You were one of us! In fact, right now I'd like to—"

"Please sir, just this once, will you help us?" the mousy-haired boy cut in, laying a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.

Mundungus had almost forgotten that the boy was there, not having noticed that he had slunk back against the stone wall behind him, half hidden by the shadows. He hadn't noticed either that the boy's hazel eyes were shimmering with tears, wet streaks running down his grimy face. He almost felt bad for him, wondering why the boy was alone, save for his young companion. Had he been separated from his mother? Was he a Muggleborn on the run? He wasn't the first young lad to come by, and he wouldn't be the last. How many others had lost their parents in the war, and were now being hunted down? His heart gave a painful squeeze.

Luckily, his thoughts were disrupted by a scream piercing the air. He tore his gaze away from the boy, unable to look at him anymore as it were, and turned to look down the alleyway. The two boys' heads also snapped around to the source of the sound, almost jumping out of their skins. The scream echoed again, this time farther away, followed by a cry. No matter how many times he had heard similar screams, it did not stop the hair on the back of Mundungus' neck from standing on end. He knew it was another unlucky Muggle caught by the Death Eaters, the sixth that week. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's men often patrolled this Muggle area, breaking into the nearby houses and torturing the occupants inside. In just a week, the new regime had wiped out almost all of the Muggle population, or driven them into slavery, leaving the area a hotspot for surviving Muggles and wizards alike to hide out. It reminded him that he would likely be next, and turned back to the boys.

They had to survive, but so did he.

"No deal. Now, you lads better scram and stop wasting my time, or we'll all be done for."

The mousy-haired boy broke into a sob, wavering on the spot, the pressure finally getting to him. His skin was pale, luminescent from the loss of blood. "Please," he begged.

"No."

Another scream rang out, making both boys look about. Instead of running, however, the redheaded boy began rummaging in his pockets. He threw several silver coins onto the table, followed by a broken quill and a small, silver cigarette lighter. "Look, we need this stuff, please. This is all we have, won't you at least do the right thing and consider it?"

Mundungus brushed away the Sickles and the quill, blood-shot eyes fixated on the cigarette lighter. He had seen it before, he was sure. Picking it up, he brought it closer to his face to inspect it. Covering the silver tubing, a green and black marble pattern swirled around. On the very bottom, the initials A.P.W.B.D were inscribed into the metal. It couldn't be something that belonged to his hero… could it?

"Where did you get this?"

"It belonged to my cousin before he—well, it just belonged to him and I managed to find it before one of _them_ took it," the redhead said, reaching forward to get it. "It's just a lighter, not worth much, but it would come in handy."

"Aha."

Mundungus clicked it, gasping as the little candle flame shot into the lighter. Clicking it again, the flame flew back to the candle. The boys looked at each other, faces a mix of astonishment and hope, but he ignored them, flipping the device in his hands. Yes, he had seen Dumbledore use this item on many occasions.

He had searched low and high for something that belonged to the wizard, hoping for some reminder of him. Dumbledore had been the only one who had believed in him, that there was some good within, and seeing the lighter now, it brought back the memories. His heart squeezed again, this time more painful as another scream echoed around them. This time, it was followed by a howl, and Mundungus looked back up at the boys.

The mousy-haired boy was now leaning on his friend, tear-filled eyes darting around. The redhead was watching him, biting his lip in anticipation, daring him to turn them away.

Heaving a sigh, Mundungus said, "Well, you're right there, it isn't worth much. Are you sure this is all you've got?"

"Yes. It's everything."

Reaching forward, Mundungus scooped up the silver coins, tossing the quill back at the redhead. He placed the deluminator into his pocket, next to the pouch of Galleons from earlier, and pushed a few bandages, some Murtlap Essence, a half-eaten Pumpkin Pastie and the bottle of Dittany to the boys.

"Fine, you can have this. Nothing more, though. Take it or leave it."

The mousy-haired boy shot him a weak smile, hobbling forward so that his friend could snatch up the wears. Pocketing them, they hurried away, the mousy-brown haired boy limping and the redhead dipping his head in a quick 'Thank you.'

More howling ripped through the night air, sending a chill up his spine. It seemed that the patrol had lasted longer this time, and (no doubt) more victims fell to the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's minions this time. The boys would be lucky to get far, and Mundungus wondered if his deal had been a waste. Leaning forward, he removed the tattered piece of parchment stuck to the front of his table. Scratching out the price listed for each of his wares with a finer quill of his own, he increased them by a few Galleons.

The deluminator felt heavy in his pocket and he patted it, settling back in his chair. Yes, they had lost the war, and Mundungus knew it was the best thing that could've happened to him. Just as his customers needed to survive, so did he.


End file.
